You may have heard that the French are at war with ISIS. You may have heard that the US has been bombing sites in Syria. You may have heard that the hacktivist group, Anonymous, has declared war against the Islamic State.

You have most definitely heard of the recent acts of terror in France, Lebanon and around the world.

In the recent days I have wished there was something I could do to fight the terrorists, too. I’m not talking about going to war, because I’m not made for that, but something. Bake cookies for peace? Bake cakes of solidarity? Start a project where people make squares of a quilt and then organize to have it sewn together – a quilt that shows our unity and grief?

I am one medium sized woman. I am not a President of a country, a CEO of a corporation, or director of a nonprofit. I do not have large amounts of money. I am not famous. My name is only recognized in the households of my friends and family, but I am not a nobody. I am not powerless. I can fight the terrorist in my own life, and you can too. We can fight, and we can win.

What is a terrorist? What do they want? In the simplest terms they want us to be afraid. They want to terrorize us so we can no longer live without fear, because fear will cause us to do all kinds of harm to one another. At first we will stop trusting that person on the bus, and then we will stop trusting that person in the market, and then we will stop trusting our neighbors, and eventually we will stop trusting our relatives and friends. It will break us apart. Fear can divide us on every level. Fear can also keep us from doing the things we love. Fear can keep us from running a marathon, or going to a soccer game, or buying tickets to a concert.

Unity can combat terror. Kindness can combat fear. Compassion and empathy can keep us together. Our ideas, freely shared, can keep us from ignorance and extremism.

I want to fight the terrorist and I will do so, by welcoming a stranger, reaching out to the world with the words on my blog, building a diverse community with my writing, looking after my neighbors, offering help to those in need, going to a Football game, traveling on an airplane, and refusing to let fear dictate how I live my life and how I treat people.

You, the person in my city, are not separate from me. You, the person in another state, are not separate from me. You, the person in Mexico, or South America, are not separate from me. You, the person in Japan, or Australia, are not separate from me. You, anywhere in the world, are a part of me and I am a part of you. There are more of us who want peace than who want terror. I join with you in celebration of life and all that we have to rejoice over. I join with in in unity and love. I want the best for you. In this way, with these ideas, we have already beat terrorism. We are the victors. We have already won.

It has been a wild ride on social media this week. I watched as hundreds of people that are friends of mine on Facebook put an overlay of France’s flag on their profiles. I, too, did something to show my support, I put up a picture of my husband and I at the Eiffel Tower that was taken from a trip we took back in 2008.

The outpouring of support for France was everywhere. After a day or so I started to see articles written by people from Lebanon asking why there wasn’t the same type of support for them (just before the attacks in Paris, Beirut suffered a terrorist attack that killed 41 people. ISIS claimed responsibility).

There was a lot of what I have seen called, “grief shaming” going on. People were accusing other people of acting as if Lebanese lives don’t matter as much as French lives. There was an article out of Seattle today saying that the flying of the French flag on the Space Needle is racist.

I am actually in a unique position in regards to the claims of not caring as much for one group’s lives as much as another. My husband was born in Beirut, his first language is French, and we have family in both countries.

What did I do when I heard about the attack in Paris? I changed my profile picture to show support for France, not Lebanon. Does that mean I care less for the people of Beirut, the city where my husband was born? No. I care equally for the people of Beirut, how could I not when my own husband is Lebanese?

What happened to me, and what happened to many others is that the news of the bombing in Beirut didn’t reach us until after we had heard about Paris. I am not a news junkie, so I don’t always hear what is happening in the world the moment it happens unless it hits my circle on social media.

Information about the attacks in Paris was almost instantly on my newsfeed, and the same was not true for the attacks in Beirut. I don’t blame individuals for not caring as much about one group of people as much as the other. I blame the media for not covering the story in the same way.

Several hours after the attacks in Paris, I had already heard heartbreaking and terrifying stories from people who saw the attacks taking place. In other words, I had already met the victims. I met the first victim of the Beirut bombing today – the story of a man who threw his body on one of the terrorists which caused the explosives the terrorist had strapped to his body to explode. The man and his daughter died, but in the process he saved hundreds of lives. He died a tragic death, but he also died a hero.

So my response to all the “grief shaming” that I saw happening on social media and in magazines is to say that if “someone” is racist and cares more about French lives than Lebanese lives, that “someone” appears to be the media, because the coverage of the two incidents were completely lopsided.

On a blog about schizophrenia, why does any of this matter? It matters, because if the Lebanese people are asking us, “Do our lives matter less to you than the lives of others?” I want to have an answer for them. I constantly feel as if people with a mental illness are marginalized and treated as “less-than.” When I hear other people talking that way, my ears perk up, because I don’t want to be a person that is guilty of valuing one group of human beings over another. I constantly ask people to care about the mentally ill. I constantly ask people to care about the way the mentally ill are treated and about the issues that involve us.

How can I ask people to pay attention to my life, and what concerns me if I am unwilling to care about their life and what concerns them? I don’t feel like I have a right to do that. So, I am saying to the Lebanese people, yes, the world paid more attention to the loss of life in France than in Lebanon. Yes, cities all over the planet turned their landmarks blue, white, and red. We are guilty of this. I believe it has to do with the media, but next time, (hopefully there will be no next time) I will be monitoring my own behavior. I don’t want you to say that you spoke out about your pain, and the injustice of it all, and no one was listening. I heard you.

Those of us with a mental illness, especially those of us who have schizophrenia, or who have been living with a mental illness for twenty years or more, know what it is like to be misunderstood, we know what it is like to be on the outside, we know what it is like to feel as if people fear us. So many people still think we are dangerous.

My husband was born Lebanese. Both of my husband and I went to an American high school in Cairo Egypt. My husband has lived in the United States for over thirty years. He got his citizenship the hard way – he filled out forms, jumped through hoops, waited years, learned our history, took a test, and swore allegiance to our country.

My husband has never missed an election in which he was eligible to vote. Voting to him is a privilege and a responsibility. My husband knows more about the American government than I do, and far more than the average person on the street. My husband shouldn’t have to prove his patriotism though. You shouldn’t have to be waving the American flag in order to be free from discrimination.

After 9/11 I watched my husband get stopped at every checkpoint. I watched him get questioned at every security gate that I walked right through. Now, with the attacks in France, I fear for my husband’s safety. He can’t hide where he was born. His passport clearly states he was born in Beirut. His skin is olive. His hair is black. Our name is Arabic.

There are days that I feel so deeply tired from trying to educate people about the realities of schizophrenia. I do this so the media will stop portraying people like me as mass shooters, as criminals, or as murderers. The tired I feel is the kind that keeps me in bed with the covers up over my head. I don’t feel tired when the press doesn’t differentiate between Muslims and terrorists, or between Arabs who are Muslim and Arabs who are Christian. I don’t feel tired at all, I feel fear. I feel a fear that the person I love most in the world is in danger.

The fear I feel has nothing to do with my illness. It is not paranoia taking over my mind. My husband and I have something terrible in common. The media and many people in America think that neither one of us can be trusted. They think we are dangerous. They think we are going to commit atrocities.

Both my husband and I are peace loving people. We try to protect both animals and humans. We are the type of people who will buy a stranger who is hungry a meal to eat. We weep at the suffering in the world and do our part to ease that suffering when we can.

Those of us who get stereotyped and judged should stand in solidarity with others who are judged and stereotyped. If we don’t stand up for the people who are treated unfairly how can we expect anyone to stand with us in return?

We need to educate ourselves about other people’s struggles. We need to try to be a force for good in the world, not just with the issues that concern us, but the issues that concern others. People are more likely to listen to us when we care about their stories, their experiences, and their hardships. Let’s occasionally give up being a mouth, and try on being an ear.

This morning schizophrenia doesn’t seem like such a big topic. It doesn’t seem quite as pressing as usual. It certainly isn’t on the forefront of my mind.

I am thinking of Paris. I am thinking of all those innocent people who lost their lives and how their families are grieving and how the witnesses will probably suffer psychological disturbances for the rest of their lives.

I am thinking there was a time when I used to say, “Mom, I’m going to ride my bike,” and I would be outside until my mother blew a whistle to call all four of her children in.

I am thinking of a time when I went door to door by myself, in neighborhoods that were not my own, and sold Girl Scout Cookies.

I am thinking about a time when I walked to school and back home again, or walked several miles to a friend’s house.

I am thinking of a time when schools didn’t have metal detectors.

I am thinking of a time when flying on a plane was unusual, and most of the people I knew had never done it.

I am thinking about a time when going to another country was exotic not something people did for business or their annual vacation.

I am thinking of a time when I had never heard of the word terrorist.

I am thinking of a time when we were not at war.

I am thinking of a time when murder wasn’t on the nightly news.

I am thinking of a time when we owned bb guns and had never heard of an AK47.

I am thinking of a time when I was so excited to go to a baseball game or a move theater and my safety never occurred to me.

I am thinking of a time when the only monsters I knew of were under my bed or in my closet, but would disappear as soon as my parents or brothers turned on the lights.

I am thinking of the loss of innocence and how we never get it back again.

I am thinking of all the murders we have to try and live with on a daily basis. How much terror is too much terror? What will happen to us if as adults we can no longer grieve the sheer number of those murdered? Will it destroy our hearts?

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